


Fire Meet Gasoline

by quixotesque



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Blood and Violence, Dark, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14148795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: The light flickers, dims, flickers again, like a star struggling not to die. Somewhere above them, water drips slowly, trickles down unknown paths.T’Challa sits on a chair in the centre of the dingy room, bound to it by unyielding rope.





	Fire Meet Gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> Title is quite obviously from Sia's 'Fire Meet Gasoline'!

The light flickers, dims, flickers again, like a star struggling not to die. Somewhere above them, water drips slowly, trickles down unknown paths.   

T’Challa sits on a chair in the centre of the dingy room, bound to it by unyielding rope. Still, his back is as straight as it can be. His mother had taught him perfect posture, how to sit tranquilly even if the world was coming to an apocalyptic end around him.

Even if there are two silver guns aimed at his head and Klaue standing in front of him with a gargoyle’s ugly grin.

“My, my, what a good day we’ve had,” Klaue says with his usual corrupted child’s glee. “We’ve got the notorious Black Panther here all alone. Poor, poor kitty.”

T’Challa almost rolls his eyes. “You caught me,” he says flatly. “Congratulations.”

Klaue is too much into theatrics and loves them even more when he has an unwilling audience, so the interrogation hasn’t quite begun. T’Challa is merely grateful he hasn’t been subjected to off-key singing yet.

“Shouldn’t have given those she-devil of yours the day off.”

“There isn’t anything wrong with being a generous boss.”

Klaue makes a show of looking around, then gestures to his two minions with the sleek guns. “Isn’t there?”

“Preparation is key,” is all T’Challa says.

Klaue's grin dwindles and he rolls his sleeves up. His prosthetic arm is a monotonous white that lacks the slinking tattoos of his right arm; a knife gleams in its hand.

He nears, the acrid stink of him reaching T’Challa first, and bends down so that they’re face-to-face. “How long do you think it takes to skin a cat?” he asks softly, maybe even with genuine curiosity.

“I wouldn’t know. You’d need a cat for that, wouldn’t you.”

Klaue chuckles. Undaunted, T’Challa looks into Klaue’s watery blue eyes as the knife nears his face. It's barely grazed his beard when a loud bang interrupts them, forcing Klaue to a stop. Thudding follows, gunshots in a strange, erratic pattern, and a voice languidly calls out, “Pizza delivery. Anyone home?”

T’Challa says, “I believe that's the sound of preparation.”

Hastily, Klaue retreats behind T’Challa, tucking his knife against T’Challa’s throat close and tight enough for the blade to nick a small, stinging kiss into his skin. One of Klaue’s men moves forward to investigate, tentatively opening the door, slipping out. He doesn’t return.

"It's that crazy American," Klaue hisses at T'Challa. "No one told me you two have finally worked things out."

An understatement, T'Challa thinks. He’d known from the moment he’d laid eyes on his estranged cousin that N’Jadaka would be his little piece of heaven wrapped up in a hellish package and each fight-turned-into-a-fuck and fuck-turned-into-a-fight has only ever proved him right. Now they're something deadlier than that: a perfect chemical reaction burning inexhaustibly, capable of blowing up the entire planet if they wished it. One day, they will wish it. 

Klaue's other goon is hovering anxiously around the door, preparing to end whoever steps through, but all that comes crashing into the room is a blur that clears into a limp body, shot through the neck, and in the suddenness of it, T’Challa hears another bullet burst free. The second goon collapses onto the ground, a new hole ornamenting his forehead.

From the shadows beyond the door, N’Jadaka emerges as if the darkness gave life to him fully-formed. His eyes glitter like jagged glass. His smile is controlled chaos. He looks barely scuffed, leather jacket and white shirt filled perfectly by the broadness of his chiseled torso.

He shoots twice, whip-fast, precise, before Klaue can issue any threats and Klaue cries out, his left elbow pierced through, then his left shoulder. The knife clatters as it drops onto the ground, skidding away.

“N’Jadaka,” T’Challa says warmly. He smiles, soft, the smile that N’Jadaka once said looks like it was cut gently into T’Challa’s face with the tip of a claw.

“Fancy running into you here, sweetheart.”

“Yes, what a coincidence.” T’Challa returns his gaze to Klaue, who is snarling like cornered prey, stumbling in whichever direction he thinks will let him escape N'Jadaka. N'Jadaka just appears amused. “Did you really think you caught me because you outsmarted me?”

“You’re too late. If it’s the vibranium you want, I’ve already sold it.”

“To the CIA, we know,” N’Jadaka says. “Nakia’s squashing that bug under her Jimmy Choos as we speak.” He tucks his gun back into the holster at his hip and crouches down for Klaue's knife. Rising again, he swiftly and easily overpowers Klaue, slipping the blade into Klaue’s belly alongside a hiss of, “We got your sorry ass out of hiding, so we ain’t late for nothing.”

Pain ripples out of Klaue’s throat in a sound that is oddly similar to the raspy, hacking cough he calls a laugh. N’Jadaka pulls the knife out and leaves him there on the ground to bleed out some more, haughtily sauntering up to T’Challa, wordlessly demanding all of his attention. There’s a bulge in his jeans that’s most likely been there from the first bullet he fired.

“Don’t you dare wipe his blood on me,” T’Challa tells him. 

“Sounding real cocky there for a man tied to a chair,” N’Jadaka replies. The thin slice of a scar on his left cheek, courtesy of T’Challa, looks like a skewed smirk. The scar on T’Challa’s lower belly, courtesy of N’Jadaka, seems to grow warm in recognition. “Maybe I should just leave you like this,” he adds, stroking fingers that smell like smoke and metal across T’Challa’s bottom lip. “Have my wicked way with you while you can do nothing ‘bout it.”

“Behave,” T’Challa says, “and I’ll give you a little reward right now.”

“Is that what we calling your dick now? It ain’t that little—or is it and I’m just remembering wrong.”

“Well, you _were_ too busy screaming when I had you pinned on it.”

“I never scream,” N’Jadaka says, belied by the hedonistic little curl of a smile on his face. The smile drops the same moment his gaze drops to T’Challa’s throat. “He hurt you.”

“Hardly.”

N’Jadaka tsks, climbing onto his lap, T’Challa his throne and king both. The two gold chains around his neck shimmer like bejeweled snakes, one long and carrying with his father’s ring, the other shorter with a jaguar head pendant, a gift from Shuri that she'd hoped N'Jadaka would hate. Naturally, N'Jadaka has taken to wearing it at all times.

Dipping his head, N'Jadaka runs a gentle tongue over the little cut, taking the small sting and turning it into something sweeter before his mouth closes down and sucks hard like he thinks T’Challa’s pulse will fall into his mouth if he’s rough enough.

A rumble sounds in T’Challa’s throat. His cock swells in his trousers. “Untie me, N’Jadaka."

"Reward me, T’Challa,” N'Jadaka returns, winding his arms around T’Challa and cutting through the ropes blindly but perfectly. Once the last coil has fallen to the ground, N'Jadaka throws the knife down there too. Danger crackles around him like something live, lightning that would shock T’Challa if he touched him, so of course T’Challa touches him.

He curls fingers into N’Jadaka’s dreadlocks, tugs hard enough, painful enough, to make N’Jadaka moan, and chases N’Jadaka’s hot breath back into his open mouth, tasting its special tang. T’Challa would kill just to keep this mouth for himself— _has_ killed for this mouth, for N’Jadaka, killed M’Baku who thought he could usurp T’Challa’s position as leader and win his lover as a trophy. T'Challa had taught him otherwise by choking the life out of that would-be thief and then fucking a laughing, darkly ecstatic N’Jadaka in the same room as the corpse. 

N’Jadaka’s hands scramble between them, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, rocking up when T’Challa gets a hand on his hot, heavy length. Just pre-come to ease the roughness, but the discomfort is irrelevant, is part of the pleasure, just what N’Jadaka likes, muttering huskily, “Yeah, c’mon, get me there.”

“How many new scars have you earned today?” T’Challa inquires into N’Jadaka’s mouth, trailing the question out and down over his jaw, his immaculate beard scraping T'Challa's lips.

“Seven.”

“ _Good._ Well done.” A dark, shapeless thing moves feral in his chest. Unhealthy obsession, some might call it. Love, others might begrudgingly concede. T’Challa doesn’t care. He has no interest in critique or categorization. He only wants N’Jadaka, who is the other side to T'Challa's coin and who slots their mouths together again in a careless kiss that is just another mauling. 

He’s handling N’Jadaka too harshly, he knows, and N’Jadaka is groaning too loudly, and it’s too hot in this cold room, heat in their furiously kissing mouths, heat in N’Jadaka’s hands as they circle around T’Challa’s throat, in T’Challa’s stroking fingers, in his belly and his cock, that they must already be half a step away from going up in flames.

“I knew you would come for me,” he whispers fiercely, his fist a vice that N’Jadaka still manages to fuck his cock through, "so _come_ for me, N’Jadaka.” After all these years, they’ve got it down to a fine science, N’Jadaka’s weapon of a body trained perfectly, ready to comply like a gun ready to fire, T’Challa’s voice its only trigger.

The moment’s almost flawless. Almost. T’Challa notices slow, staggering movement behind N’Jadaka and his hand sneaks to N’Jadaka’s hip, slipping his gun back out. A flick of his wrist, an explosive sound, and _now_ the moment is flawless, the bullet ripping through Klaue’s skull, blood splattering like a morbid ink blot on the wall just as N’Jadaka moans, his cock pulsing out its release in T’Challa’s fist and against the fine fabric of their shirts.

N’Jadaka's laugh is a cruel melody, his body vibrating with his satisfaction. “Not with a whimper, but a bang,” he says and takes T’Challa’s stained hand by the wrist. Tongue lewd, eyes hot, refusing to leave T’Challa's, he diligently licks T’Challa’s palm and fingers clean like he’s savoring a delicacy. “Want me to suck you off?”

“Later,” T’Challa decides, packing the single word with a world of promise. He doesn't mind waiting if it's to get N'Jadaka on a bed. “We can take our time.”

“Imma hold you to that,” N’Jadaka says and rocks one last time against T'Challa's cock, slinking off his lap with a grin before T'Challa can push him off or drag him closer. There's no hiding the new stains on his jeans, so N'Jadaka doesn't try, zipping and buttoning himself quickly. He pulls out his phone, pressing at it a few times and then sliding it back into his pocket. "W'Kabi's gonna be here with the clean-up crew in five."

"Then our business here is finished." T'Challa stands, rolling his shoulders, adjusting his trousers. He's no longer willing to stay in this dull Western city where the sky is fixed to a smoke-gray and there's no warmth to the wind. He wants to feel the sun on his skin and taste its lingering heat on N'Jadaka's body afterwards when it's dark.

Taking N’Jadaka’s hand in his, T'Challa brushes his lips across bruised knuckles, murmuring, "Let us go home, beautiful," and together they step over Klaue’s body, leaving without another glance.

**Author's Note:**

> Erik's "Not with a whimper, but a bang," is of course a rearrangement of T. S. Eliot's "This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper," from 'The Hollow Men'.


End file.
